Freedom Writers
Maybe we should talk about art. Tito’s got real talent, don’t you think? You know something? I saw a picture just like this once in a museum. Only it wasn’t a black man, it was a Jewish man, and instead of big lips he had a really big nose, like a rat’s nose. But he wasn’t one particular Jewish man, this was a drawing of all Jews. And these drawings were put in the newspapers by the most famous gang in history. You think you know all about gangs? You’re amateurs. This gang would put you all to shame. And they started out poor and angry, and everyone looked down on them until one man decided to give them some pride. An identity. And somebody to blame. Take over neighborhoods? That’s nothing compared to them! They took over countries. You wanna know how? They just wiped out everybody else. Yeah! They wiped out everybody they didn’t like, and everybody they blamed for their life being hard. And one of the ways they did it was by doing this. See, they’d print pictures like this in the newspapers. Jewish people with big, long noses, blacks with big fat lips. They’d also publish scientific evidence that proved Jews and blacks were the lowest form of human species. Jews and blacks were more like animals, and because they were just like animals, it didn’t really matter if they lived or died. In fact, life would be a whole lot better if they were all dead. That’s how a Holocaust happens.
How crazy is a box of frogs? Mad as a box of frogs. The saying. I don’t get it. Unless they mean mad as in pissed off. In which case, if I were those frogs and I’d been forced into a box with several other frogs, then yeah, I’d be pissed as well. But crazy mad? I don’t get it.
An old Italian gentleman lived alone in New Jersey . He wanted to plant his annual tomato garden, but it was very difficult work, as the ground was hard. His only son, Vincent, who used to help him, was in prison. The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament:
Dear Vincent, I am feeling pretty sad because it looks like I won’t be able to plant my tomato garden this year. I’m just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot. I know if you were here my troubles would be over. I know you would be happy to dig the plot for me, like in the old days. Love, Papa
A few days later he received a letter from his son.
Dear Papa, Don’t dig up that garden. That’ s where the bodies are buried. Love, Vinnie
At 4 a.m. The next morning, FBI agents and local police arrived and dug up the entire area without finding any bodies. They apologized to the old man and left. That same day the old man received another letter from his son.
Dear Papa, Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now. That’s the best I could do under the circumstances. Love you, Vinnie
Dear Vincent, I am feeling pretty sad because it looks like I won’t be able to plant my tomato garden this year. I’m just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot. I know if you were here my troubles would be over. I know you would be happy to dig the plot for me, like in the old days. Love, Papa
A few days later he received a letter from his son.
Dear Papa, Don’t dig up that garden. That’ s where the bodies are buried. Love, Vinnie
At 4 a.m. The next morning, FBI agents and local police arrived and dug up the entire area without finding any bodies. They apologized to the old man and left. That same day the old man received another letter from his son.
Dear Papa, Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now. That’s the best I could do under the circumstances. Love you, Vinnie
I sometimes wonder if my life is all a dream, or a hallucination; as if I am schizophrenic. And I fear the day I will wake up. But at the same time I wonder if that life would be better. Then I remember I am schizophrenic, in this way of thinking. Is it really that bad though? To live in your dreams, even if you seldom have a nightmare? If you create a place where gods are known to be real, or humanity believes it. A world where humanity is beneath you.
This is the supremacy of the flesh, which devours all, and becomes transfigured into a magnificent brindled flame, a burning bush indeed.
This is one way of transfiguration into the eternal flame, the transfiguration through ecstacy in the flesh.
-D. H. Lawrence’s ‘Twilight in Italy’
Schizophrenia is summed up in a short phrase : Dreaming of a world that’s stopped dreaming of me. That’s what it seems to me anyway. Comparing my life with another is like comparing a Dr. Seuss book to the Bible. One is a joy to read with fun and odd pictures and the other is a chore printed on onion paper. The bible however can give you structure to your life, meanwhile Dr. Seuss provides a tale to tell with a moral if you’re lucky.
Odd times I feel as if no one notices me, even though they’re always watching. Like one of those little Russian dolls, a person inside of a person inside of a person; Wrapped in so many layers and that no one ever sees beneath the first one. Can I see myself though? I portray this girl who doesn’t fit in, yet is almost always happy. Who am I?
So I may wish that my life be different. Whether I wish for it to be like a book, or a movie, but something else. And it doesn’t happen. Is that how being mentally insane is? Your life isn’t your own, but you can’t make things like magic or alternate dimensions real? If you were blind and you wanted to see? A place where miracles would happen? Where illness and disease don’t exist and the world is peaceful and everyone aids each other?
Traveling the world is one of my goals in life, though traveling through space and time is a wish for me. I read novels and stories so I can insert myself, or myselves, into these other lives searching for the perfect story to tell my life to. Hope, means little to me in these matters though, because my birth has past, my eleventh birthday has past, my seventeenth birthday has past and I doubt that my eighteenth birthday will turn me into anything different. I am human. I am woman. I am a university student in the twenty-first century. I am not powerful. I am not magical. I am not elvish. I am not a vampire. I am not a werewolf. I am not immortal. I won’t ever be a wizard, a centaur, or even a boy; the one thing that I know exists on this plain of existence. I will always be myself. Whoever that is.
This is the supremacy of the flesh, which devours all, and becomes transfigured into a magnificent brindled flame, a burning bush indeed.
This is one way of transfiguration into the eternal flame, the transfiguration through ecstacy in the flesh.
-D. H. Lawrence’s ‘Twilight in Italy’
Schizophrenia is summed up in a short phrase : Dreaming of a world that’s stopped dreaming of me. That’s what it seems to me anyway. Comparing my life with another is like comparing a Dr. Seuss book to the Bible. One is a joy to read with fun and odd pictures and the other is a chore printed on onion paper. The bible however can give you structure to your life, meanwhile Dr. Seuss provides a tale to tell with a moral if you’re lucky.
Odd times I feel as if no one notices me, even though they’re always watching. Like one of those little Russian dolls, a person inside of a person inside of a person; Wrapped in so many layers and that no one ever sees beneath the first one. Can I see myself though? I portray this girl who doesn’t fit in, yet is almost always happy. Who am I?
So I may wish that my life be different. Whether I wish for it to be like a book, or a movie, but something else. And it doesn’t happen. Is that how being mentally insane is? Your life isn’t your own, but you can’t make things like magic or alternate dimensions real? If you were blind and you wanted to see? A place where miracles would happen? Where illness and disease don’t exist and the world is peaceful and everyone aids each other?
Traveling the world is one of my goals in life, though traveling through space and time is a wish for me. I read novels and stories so I can insert myself, or myselves, into these other lives searching for the perfect story to tell my life to. Hope, means little to me in these matters though, because my birth has past, my eleventh birthday has past, my seventeenth birthday has past and I doubt that my eighteenth birthday will turn me into anything different. I am human. I am woman. I am a university student in the twenty-first century. I am not powerful. I am not magical. I am not elvish. I am not a vampire. I am not a werewolf. I am not immortal. I won’t ever be a wizard, a centaur, or even a boy; the one thing that I know exists on this plain of existence. I will always be myself. Whoever that is.
“The Egg” by Andy Weir
You were on your way home when you died.
It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.
And that’s when you met me.
“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”
“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.
“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”
“Yup,” I said.
“I… I died?”
“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.
You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”
“More or less,” I said.
“Are you god?” You asked.
“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”
“My kids… my wife,” you said.
“What about them?”
“Will they be all right?”
“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”
You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”
“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”
“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”
“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”
“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”
You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”
“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”
“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”
I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.
“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”
“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”
“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”
“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”
“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”
“Where you come from?” You said.
“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”
“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”
“So what’s the point of it all?”
“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”
“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.
I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”
“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”
“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”
“Just me? What about everyone else?”
“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”
You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”
“All you. Different incarnations of you.”
“Wait. I’m everyone!?”
“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.
“I’m every human being who ever lived?”
“Or who will ever live, yes.”
“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”
“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.
“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.
“And you’re the millions he killed.”
“I’m Jesus?”
“And you’re everyone who followed him.”
You fell silent.
“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”
You thought for a long time.
“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”
“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”
“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”
“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”
“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”
“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”
And I sent you on your way.
It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.
And that’s when you met me.
“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”
“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.
“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”
“Yup,” I said.
“I… I died?”
“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.
You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”
“More or less,” I said.
“Are you god?” You asked.
“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”
“My kids… my wife,” you said.
“What about them?”
“Will they be all right?”
“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”
You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”
“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”
“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”
“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”
“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”
You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”
“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”
“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”
I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.
“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”
“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”
“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”
“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”
“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”
“Where you come from?” You said.
“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”
“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”
“So what’s the point of it all?”
“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”
“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.
I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”
“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”
“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”
“Just me? What about everyone else?”
“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”
You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”
“All you. Different incarnations of you.”
“Wait. I’m everyone!?”
“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.
“I’m every human being who ever lived?”
“Or who will ever live, yes.”
“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”
“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.
“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.
“And you’re the millions he killed.”
“I’m Jesus?”
“And you’re everyone who followed him.”
You fell silent.
“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”
You thought for a long time.
“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”
“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”
“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”
“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”
“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”
“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”
And I sent you on your way.